


Under Pressure

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Octavia Street musings [12]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18658558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Late spring 2002.





	1. Happy New Home

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by This Is Going To Hurt by Adam Kay. Well worth a read, funny and moving.

“Ils, I’m sorry,” Nick said into the phone at the nurses’ station. He slumped forwards onto his elbows on the desk, grateful for even a moment’s respite, wishing he could have had the luxury of a chair for two minutes.

On the other end of the line, his wife sighed. “Nick, please,” she said. “It’s our own housewarming. Can’t you get here for any of it?”

Nick closed his eyes, imagining her in the tiny hallway of their little flat, the flat they were so proud of, that they’d saved so hard for. Ilsa had been running around all day, he knew, cleaning and shopping and cooking and preparing, while he was stuck on yet another shift that was turning into a double again. He rasped a hand across the stubble on his cheeks and wondered vaguely when he’d last slept a full night in bed next to his wife.

He jumped as the double doors to his right clanged open. A rush of doctors, nurses, a patient on a gurney swept past. He hauled himself upright. “I’ll try,” he said hopelessly. “I’m so sorry, Ilsa.”

“I know,” she said softly. “It’s not your fault.” But he could hear the disappointment in her voice, and that hurt his heart more than her anger would have done.

He opened his mouth to say...what? But before he could speak, his pager went off. And not his normal one, the crash bleep. Another emergency.

“Got to go, sorry,” he said, and hung up, already scanning the pager. He set off down the corridor, breaking into a run. The department that had summoned him was at the other end of the hospital. _At least I’m keeping fit, even if I don’t have time to go running properly,_ he thought grimly, pushing his way through the next set of doors.

...

Ilsa put the phone down and blinked back tears. She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to compose herself. People would be arriving within the hour. She still had snacks to assemble. _Get a grip,_ she told herself, wiping her eyes. She tried to remember when she had last made a plan with her husband that his job hadn’t wrecked.

She understood his vocation, his calling, she really did. She knew how important it was to him. But she’d not really anticipated just how much of an effect on their relationship it would have. The schedule of a junior doctor was punishing. The rotas were rigid, inflexible, and swapping shifts made almost impossible by the complexity of his and his colleagues’ shift patterns. Nick had missed weddings, anniversaries, family get-togethers. The hours were crazy - most weeks he worked well in excess of his contracted hours, often double, especially at weekends, because too much work was crammed into each shift and there weren’t enough doctors to fill all the vacancies. Desperate to avoid the rising costs of bank staff, hospital management continually rearranged the work, pushing more and more onto the doctors at the bottom.

He was stressed and exhausted, she knew he was. She’d had times when she’d been afraid he was going to burn out, but somehow his love for the job and his dedication to the patients kept him going. And the end was in sight. He almost had enough training years now to officially apply for the next rung up, and hopefully a tenured spot in a hospital working directly under a consultant. The night work would stop and the weekends would reduce. He had applied for various positions, had one hospital and consultant in particular he was keen to secure, but had heard nothing back yet.

Ilsa sighed and went into their tiny kitchen to start to prepare the snacks. The little fridge was crammed with wine and beer, and she’d filled the sink with water and ice and more wine bottles. Soft candles were dotted about the flat. The patio doors stood propped open from the second bedroom at the back of the flat that doubled as her office, and she’d set out a couple of borrowed chairs and put an ashtray on an upturned box that was acting as a table. The least chintzy of her mum’s old curtains hung at the window in the little living room, and she’d laid a throw from Oxfam over the second-hand sofa. It wasn’t much, but it was their first home that they had bought together, and Ilsa was immensely proud of it. It somehow made her feel more married, although she couldn’t help feeling that that thought was a little ridiculous. It was over a year since their wedding now, they’d been properly married for ages.

The doorbell rang and she jumped, still unused to it. They’d not been in two weeks yet. She hurried to answer it. Who would have the temerity to be so early?

She opened the door to reveal Claire, her best friend and work buddy. Their cubicles at the law firm where they both worked and studied were side by side. They’d joined at the same time after uni as interns, studied for and passed the bar together and shared a flat until Ilsa moved out to live with Nick. Claire had been her bridesmaid at their wedding.

Claire grinned and waved a bottle of sparkling wine at her. “I’m not here yet,” she announced firmly. Ilsa stood back to let her in. “Claire the guest arrives in half an hour. I’m the hired help, to be paid in snacks. Give me a job.”

Ilsa smiled and hugged her, her heart swelling with gratitude and fondness. “Thank you,” she said, a little shakily. “You can start with the snacks I’m paying you with.”

Claire squeezed her. “You okay?”

Ilsa nodded, wiping her eyes again. “Nick’s stuck at work, as always.”

Claire pulled a face. “Bloody NHS,” she said. She raised a hand. “I know, I know, you guys won’t hear a word against it. But the powers that be should have some understanding that their doctors are human beings who have lives outside of work. I haven’t seen your husband for months, I was starting to wonder if you were just pretending to have one.”

Ilsa laughed. Claire always cheered her up. “Feels a bit that way to me, sometimes,” she said. “But I can assure you he still exists. He sleeps here. Mostly.”

Claire nodded. “Go put some music on and I’ll open this bottle to keep us going while we work,” she said. “Let’s get this party started!”

 


	2. The Housewarming

Ilsa gave a start of surprise to see Charlotte on her doorstep, her hand tucked into Strike’s. She’d known her old Cornwall friend was home on leave from the Army at the moment, between missions, but she hadn’t realised he’d got back together with his ex. Not that she was surprised. She’d lost count of the number of times they had split up in vicious acrimony and then got back together in sweeping ecstasy. Judging by the body language, the closeness between them, this was a recent development. Inwardly rolling her eyes as she greeted them both, she found herself idly wondering how long it would be this time before the fights started again.

They were quite late, as always, and the party was in full swing. Ilsa wondered if she had overestimated a little how many people would fit into their flat. A few of her colleagues, Claire, a couple of Nick’s doctor mates and one or two uni friends who now lived in London plus various partners, and with the addition now of Strike and Charlotte, it was standing room only. Fortunately a knot of people had collected on the patio, and Strike went straight to join them after making his greetings and opening one of the beers he’d brought. Charlotte followed, unwilling to let go of his hand.

Claire nudged Ilsa as she stood by the fridge, pouring Charlotte a glass of wine. “Who’s the stunning brunette with Corm?”

Ilsa rolled her eyes for real this time. “That’s Charlotte, the on-and-off girlfriend,” she said. “Looks like it’s back on.”

“It does indeed,” Claire said. “Shame.” She winked at Ilsa, who laughed. Claire and Strike had dated briefly, years ago, and had the odd hook-up since. Ilsa wondered if her friend had been hoping Strike would be here and single. She wasn’t currently dating anyone.

“Why don’t I introduce you to Adam, one of Nick’s colleagues,” Ilsa suggested.

Claire laughed. “Do I want to date a doctor? I, too, could have a partner I never see, who never comes to any social gatherings.”

Ilsa nodded ruefully. “It is a bit like that,” she said. “The end is in sight, though. Hang on, let me take this to Charlotte.”

She wove her way out to the patio, where Strike and Charlotte were smoking and talking to an old friend of Nick’s who Strike also knew. She smiled and passed Charlotte her drink, and Charlotte smiled warmly back and thanked her. Her hand was no longer tucked into Strike’s, but she seemed unwilling to leave his orbit.

Claire had followed Ilsa out and joined the chat.

“It’s good to see you, Corm,” Ilsa said in a lull in the conversation. “How long are you in the country for?”

“No idea,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got six weeks of leave I’ve saved up, and then I have to report back to the SIB and see where they want me next. I’ve heard there’s a job coming up in Cyrus, might be a good place to spend the winter.”

“God, indeed,” Ilsa said. “How fantastic. So are you in barracks?”

“Officially,” Strike said with a wicked wink, and Charlotte laughed and gave him a shove. “You only want me for my flat,” she said teasingly, and he slid an arm round her.

“Hey, if I have to choose between your big comfy bed and a barracks bunk...” he said suggestively. 

Charlotte laughed and winked at Ilsa. “He does particularly like the bed,” she said. “That’s why we’re late.”

Ilsa laughed, hoping she sounded genuinely amused. Charlotte never failed to have to stamp her claim all over Strike whenever she was with him. Then she caught a sideways glance from Claire and suddenly she was laughing for real. Charlotte smiled, pleased to be the centre of attention.

“Excuse me, must refill the snacks,” Ilsa said.

“I’ll help.” Claire followed her to the kitchen, where they clung to the sink and giggled helplessly.

“Oh, God, she’s awful,” whispered Claire when she got her breath back.

“I did tell you,” Ilsa said. “But he’s besotted with her, so be kind.”

“No need to mention I shagged him for a few weeks, then?”

“Shagged who?”

Charlotte had entered the kitchen behind them. Scarlet, Ilsa dived her head into a cupboard, hunting for pretzels, but Claire was brazen.

“Your other half,” she said. “Few years back now, when Ilsa and I lived together.”

Charlotte smiled at her, but her eyes were glacial. “Well, I’m sure you were a pleasant diversion,” she said. “But Bluey always finds his way back to me.” She opened the fridge and removed the white wine bottle and began to top up her glass.

Behind her, Claire mouthed “ _Bluey??_ ” at Ilsa and made pretend vomit faces. Suppressing a giggle, Ilsa filled the pretzel bowl.

“Would you mind taking these out?” she asked Charlotte politely.

“Not at all,” Charlotte said graciously, replacing the wine bottle in the fridge and taking the bowl. “Lovely flat, Ilsa. It’s...cute.” She sashayed back out to the patio.

“Bitch,” Claire muttered.

Ilsa shook her head. “I’m used to it,” she said. “Fabulously wealthy, massively insecure. I don’t think she’s happy. I don’t think she knows how to be. I’d rather have my little flat and Nick any day.”

“Ah, you two are so loved up. This is a perfect little love nest.” Claire said.

“Hm,” Ilsa couldn’t help murmuring.

“What?”

“Oh...” Ilsa sighed. “It’s cosy, and I love it, don’t get me wrong. We’ve got our own place at last. I just wish he was here more, so it would feel like a love nest.”

Claire winked at her. “Not getting enough loving, Mrs H?”

Ilsa giggled. “I wouldn’t say no to a bit more action,” she said. “He’s just so exhausted all the time. Maybe tonight, if we can get a couple of beers down him, get him relaxed.”

“Have you got your best knickers on?” Claire asked, grinning.

Ilsa blushed. “Yup. And a matching bra!”

“Forward planning! Hah, hope it does the trick.” Claire laughed. “Nick won’t be able to resist.”

As if conjured by the sound of his name, Nick opened the front door at that moment. Ilsa gave a squeal of delight and went to hug him. Claire grinned at them fondly.

Nick kissed his wife. “I made it!” he said. “Where’s the beer?”

“I’ll get you one.” Ilsa hurried to the fridge, a worried frown creasing her brow. He’d felt hot. He’d only just got over being ill, she hoped he wasn’t going down with something again. He had been ill a lot lately.

“You do still exist, then,” Claire said, grinning and kissing Nick on the cheek.

He gave a rueful laugh. “Just about. Nice to see you. Thanks, Ilsa.” He took the proffered beer.

“Go out to the patio,” Ilsa said. “There’s a surprise out there for you.”

Intrigued, Nick did as he was told, and grinned with delight when he saw his old friend.

“Oggy!”

Strike turned, grinning too, and hid a small stab of shock. Nick looked awful. Strike hadn’t seen him in some months, and was struck by how thin he was, how haggard-looking.

“Christ, it’s good to see you,” Nick was saying. “Didn’t know you were back in the country.”

“You too, mate,” Strike said, shaking his outstretched hand. “Got back about a week ago, slowly catching up with everyone.”

“Starting with me,” Charlotte butted in. “Hi, Nick.”

“Good to see you,” Nick said, kissing her cheek. He joined their chat, taking a long swig of his beer. “Needed that,” he said, coughing a little.

“You ill?” Strike asked.

“I was. Just taking a while to shake the cough off.” Nick said. “Bit run down, I think. Work is busy.”

Strike privately thought that looked to be a massive understatement, but said nothing. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Charlotte.

“Could I pinch one of those?” Nick asked suddenly.

Surprised but hiding it, Strike handed them across. “Sure,” he said. He was glad he’d thought to tuck an extra pack into his coat pocket. He passed the lighter as well and watched as Nick lit up and inhaled deeply. He hadn’t seen his friend smoke since their teenage years.

“So what’s up with work?”

“Ah, just busy and understaffed, as always,” Nick said, waving the question away. “How are you, how’s Army life?”

“Yeah, good. They were pleased with my last investigation. Hoping to get a posting to Cyprus for the winter.”

Nick grinned, drawing on his cigarette and hoping Ilsa wouldn’t notice just yet. She wasn’t the type to nag, and he knew she wouldn’t begrudge him a treat, but she didn’t like him smoking. He’d stopped not long after they’d first got together. “Sounds like a cushy number.”

“I’ll have to work for it, but yeah. Beats an English winter.”

“And then what would be next?”

Strike shrugged. “Hoping to make sergeant at some point. Haven’t really got a long-term plan. Not sure I shall spend my whole career in the Army, but I’m enjoying it for now.”

Charlotte slid an arm around him. “I’ve told you, Bluey, you don’t need to work. I’ve got enough for us both.”

He smiled at her and kissed her lightly. “And I’ve told you, I’m not built to sit around. I need a purpose. At least this gives me big chunks of time off to spend with you.”

She pouted a little. “And bigger chunks when you’re not here at all.”

“You’ll just have to make the most of me while I’m here, then,” he said, grinning, and she laughed.

Nick finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray, coughing a little. Strike cast him a sideways look. “You sure you should be smoking when you’ve got a cough?”

“Back before smoking was known to be harmful, doctors used to prescribe it as a cough suppressant,” Nick replied mildly.

Strike laughed. “I think you’d be better off with the cough!”

“Undoubtedly,” Nick laughed too. “So who else have you caught up with since you’ve been back?”

The old friends were soon immersed in conversation, catching up on the last few months. Strike kept his thoughts on Nick’s general appearance and periodic cough to himself, and resolved to try to corner Ilsa at some point to ask.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that takes me over 100,000 words of Nick and Ilsa. Deary, deary me...


	3. Tea and Lunch

Ilsa was idly poking a tea bag in a mug of hot water in the break room on Monday morning when Claire strolled in, greeted her and unpacked her lunch from her bag. She opened the fridge and crouched in front of it to rearrange some Tupperware to make room for her own.

“Good party on Saturday,” she said, standing up and closing the fridge.

Ilsa nodded. “Yeah, it was lovely to see everyone,” she said.

Claire moved across to flick the kettle back on and reached up to the cupboard for a mug. She cast a sly sideways look at her friend and nudged her with her shoulder and winked. “So, did you get laid?”

Ilsa flushed, glancing around at the empty room. “No,” she muttered.

“No? You were well up for it! Did he turn you down?”

Ilsa chuckled. There was nothing her outgoing friend wouldn’t ask. “No, he fell asleep,” she said, a little crossly.

Claire roared with laughter. “What, in the middle, or...?”

“We didn’t get that far. We got rid of the last people, tidied up the worst of the mess, had a bit of a snog, you know how it goes,” Ilsa said. Claire nodded, grinning.

“And he was...into it, if you know what I mean. There was clear interest,” Ilsa said, blushing again. “So I dragged him off to bed, and things were going well. I worked my way down to—to...you know...”

Claire laughed. “God, Ilsa, you’re so coy,” she said, grinning. “To give him a blow job?”

Ilsa was scarlet now. “Yeah, and by the time I got down there, I realised his interest had...waned somewhat, shall we say, and he was snoring!”

“Oh, God, Ils, that’s priceless,” Claire said, giggling. “Well, now I know for sure they’re working him too hard, he’s never been able to keep his hands off you. At this rate I’ll be having more sex than you, and I’m single!”

Ilsa laughed too, but there was a tug of sadness in her heart. She wanted her husband back. What she hadn’t told Claire was that she’d woken later in the night to find him not in bed with her. She’d got up, pulled on her dressing gown, followed the sound of his voice. He was in the study, on the phone to the hospital.

“I woke up in a panic thinking I’d forgotten to order the right bloods for a patient with a bladder infection,” he’d explained when he hung up the phone. “Couldn’t get back to sleep till I’d checked.”

“And had you?”

“Yeah, but I still feel like there was something I was supposed to do and didn’t.”

He’d sat, lost in thought, till she’d persuaded him to return to bed, but she’d been aware it was some hours before he’d gone back to sleep, worrying and coughing. He’d gone off to work the next day looking exhausted before he even started.

Ilsa sighed and took her tea to her cubicle. She had a case to prepare for one of the senior lawyers, and she wanted to do a good job on the brief.

...

“What’s up?” Ilsa asked, dropping into a seat in the little restaurant that stood across the street from her law firm.

Strike grinned at her. “Why does something have to be up? Can’t I come and meet my old friend for lunch? We haven’t caught up in ages.”

Ilsa gave him a sideways look. “I saw you on Saturday, and you’re a long way from your usual haunts here.” She waved away a menu. She and her colleagues came here often. “I’ll have the chicken salad and a chamomile tea, please.”

The waiter nodded, took Strike’s order and moved away again.

“Okay,” Strike said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Then I’ll get straight to why I’m really here. What’s up with your husband?”

“What’s up with him?”

“Come off it, Ilsa. He looks bloody awful.”

Ilsa sighed. “I know. It’s the hours. He’s doing at least sixty, often eighty a week, under huge pressure. They’re understaffed.”

“That’s crazy. And unsustainable.”

Ilsa nodded. “I know. And he’s ill again.” She sighed. “What can I do, Corm? It’s his calling. I’m hoping it isn’t for too much longer. He’s started to apply for resident posts.”

“What does that mean?”

“He gets a full-time post in his speciality, rather than rotating round and running the wards at night. And because it’s gastroenterology, he should get mostly days and a few weekends. It’s not a twenty-four-hour-a-day job like A&E or obstetrics.”

“Sounds better. When does that start?”

“August, hopefully. He’ll have completed enough years as a junior doctor by then.”

“Junior? He’s been qualified for years!”

Ilsa laughed. “That’s just the kind of catch-all name for anyone who isn’t a consultant,” she said. “He’s actually a registrar now, so pretty senior, above the house officers. But he’ll officially be a junior doctor till he gets his own department. Or unless he became a GP, but he doesn’t want to do that. He likes the buzz of hospital work. Mostly.”

She sighed. “I’m worried about him, Corm. I’m worried he’s struggling more than he’s admitting to himself.”

Strike nodded. “He’s probably too busy to stop and think about it properly.”

Their drinks arrived, and they thanked the waiter. Food followed swiftly.

“So, what’s with you and Charlotte?” Ilsa asked, carefully neutral, spearing a piece of chicken.

Strike gave her a sharp look, not fooled. “It was my idea, before you go judging. I rang her when I got back to London.” He shrugged. “I missed her.”

Ilsa nodded. “You seem happy.” _For now,_ she couldn’t help adding in the privacy of her own head.

He smiled softly, and her heart warmed. “We are,” he said. “I know it must look weird from the outside, we split up and get back together so much. But when we work, we really work, Ils. I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. She needs me. We need each other, and something just keeps pulling us back together. One of these days we’ll work out how to shake down into something settled.”

“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. You don’t need anyone else to understand it if it works for you.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“How’s Lucy?” Ilsa asked presently. “Not heard from her for a bit.”

Strike snorted. “Pregnant.”

“Again? Crikey, that was quick.”

Strike screwed up his face, trying to remember how old his nephew was. “Um, I think it’ll be like a two-year gap? Maybe a bit more? I visited her in hospital from Portsmouth last time, so when was that?”

“While me and Nick were engaged. So, yeah, eighteen months or so ago? Wow.”

“Yeah, and she’s only just told me, not due till next spring. Early days.”

Ilsa nodded. “Ah, that’ll be nice,” she said, and giggled at the look of distaste that crossed her old friend’s face. “Babies still not your thing?”

Strike shook his head.

“I’m going to make you hold mine, you know.”

Strike stared at her in shock. “Are you—?”

“Oh, God, no. I mean when the time comes. No, no, way too soon yet. Nick needs to get more settled at work, and I need to finish all my exams. Maybe in a few years.”

Strike nodded. “I don’t think it’s ever going to be my thing,” he said. “Fortunately Charlotte doesn’t seem too bothered either.”

Ilsa couldn’t imagine for a moment Charlotte looking after a baby, being maternal. “Well, there you go,” she said. “I can’t wait, but I’m quite enjoying having my husband to myself at the moment. When I see him.”

“Nice flat,” Strike said, polishing off the last of his chips. “Why Battersea?”

Ilsa laughed. “We liked Wandsworth, but we can’t quite afford it yet,” she said. “Once I get fully qualified and Nick gets a consultancy, that’s the goal. And then the babies.” She grinned, and Strike shook his head fondly.

“You’ll be a great mum,” he said. “And Nick a doting dad. But you’re not going to talk me into it!”

“I know, I’m only teasing.”

“Well, in the meantime, I’m glad you’re there. I’m practically living at Charlotte’s for now, and Belgravia is pretty close to Battersea, in London terms.”

Ilsa nodded, and reached over the table to squeeze his hand. “It’s nice to have you close by, at least till you’re gone abroad again,” she said.

The conversation drifted on, and the old friends made no more mention of Nick for now, but Ilsa couldn’t dispel her nagging worry.

 


	4. Stresses

Ilsa was just trying to decide whether to go ahead and eat without Nick when she heard his key in the door. Her heart skipped with happiness. He must have finished relatively on time today, or at least only a couple of hours late.

He came in and kicked off his shoes, and she went to greet him. His face was lined, with such dark smudges under his eyes that it almost looked as though he’d been punched. Her heart ached for him.

“Cup of tea?” she asked softly, and he smiled tiredly. “That sounds great,” he said, and instead of heading to the shower as he normally did, he went into the sitting room.

Ilsa made two mugs of tea and took them through. “Dinner’s ready when you are,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the mug she passed him. “You’ve had to cook again. I’m sorry I’m not pulling my weight at home at the moment.”

She sat sideways next to him on the sofa, facing him, and ran a hand though his hair. “You’ve got enough on.”

“So have you. You’ve got more exams coming.” Nick cupped his mug and inhaled the steam.

“Not for a couple of months. Claire and I are going to get together in the next week or so and work out what we need to study, start making notes.”

Nick nodded. There was a pause while he stared into his tea.

“You okay?” Ilsa asked gently.

He looked up at her, a haunted look in his eyes. “I think I fell asleep at the wheel on the way home.”

Shock and fear jumped in Ilsa’s heart. “Oh, Nick. What happened?”

“I was stationary, fortunately. At the lights up on the Embankment. I don’t know, Ils. Maybe I didn’t. I was just sat there, waiting for the lights to go green and then suddenly everyone was honking at me and they were green. Maybe I was just daydreaming.”

“Maybe you were,” Ilsa said, a little relieved.

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “But what if I did, Ils? I’m just so fucking tired I can’t think straight.”

She kissed his shoulder. “All’s well that ends well. You could get cabs to work?”

He shook his head. “That’ll soon mount up,” he said. “And the buses take hours, I’d be here even less.” He gave a shaky sigh. “But more importantly, if I’m that tired, how long before I seriously fuck up at work? I already can’t sleep till I’ve gone over the whole shift in my head, trying to make sure I didn’t forget anything or anyone. Some nights I bounce from patient to patient so fast, I can’t even remember what tests I ordered for the ones at the start of the shift. Shit.” He put his tea down abruptly on the coffee table and pressed a hand to his eyes.

Ilsa felt a surge of protective anger. “This isn’t fair,” she burst out. “They shouldn’t be working you like this, any of you. It’s amazing more mistakes don’t happen.” She put her tea down too and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight, feeling the tension in him. She laid her head on his shoulder and hugged him for a long minute.

Presently Nick drew a shuddering breath and sighed. He scrubbed his hand across his face and reached for his tea again. “We have good backup,” he said. “The nurses are amazing. They’re worked just as hard, in a different way, but they’re quite good at having a quiet word, just checking that was really what you wanted done. Mostly it is, but I’ve seen them save a few arses in their time.”

Ilsa shook her head. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

“I know, but it is,” he said. He looked at her, and for the first time in his career, she saw a hint of defeat, of doubt, in his eyes. “I don’t know how much longer I can work at this pace, Ilsa.”

She set her jaw. “Then we need to get you a break. Can we get away for the weekend, go down to Cornwall?”

Nick sighed. “Not for weeks, looking at the rota.”

“You must be due some leave.”

“Loads, but leave is all booked up for months.”

“See the GP, sign you off for a bit?”

Nick sighed. “On what grounds?”

“Stress. Workload.” Ilsa took a deep breath. “Depression?”

He cast her a sideways look. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“Nick...” Ilsa paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “You’re overworked. You’re not sleeping well. You’re not eating properly. You’re ill a lot. You’ve got at least some of the symptoms.”

He nodded. “I see that. But I don’t feel... It’s hard to explain. Like, I know this is just temporary. The end is in sight. I don’t feel emotionally overwhelmed by it in the long term. Just physically. Like, how am I going to make it to the weekend on five hours’ sleep kind of overwhelmed. And then the next week, and the next.”

“Is the end in sight?”

“Yeah, I hope. I finally heard back from one of the posts I applied for, the one I really want. Interviews are this Saturday. I’m working the early but I should be able to make it, my slot isn’t until half past three.”

“Which one was this?” Ilsa knew he’d applied for a few.

“This is the one under Bob Ainsworth, that guy whose papers I studied while I was doing my gastroenterology rotation. That’s my field, that’s where I want to put my energy, and I’d love to work with him. I’m really pleased he wants to meet me. Trying to work out if I can somehow shower at the hospital and change before the interview, rather than turning up smelling like... Well, like this.” He waved a hand at his shirt.

Ilsa grinned. “You’re not that bad.”

“You’re just being polite.”

“I love you however bad you smell.”

Nick laughed. “I know. And you always cheer me up. Have I got time to shower before we eat?”

Ilsa nodded. “I’ll go and get it ready, slowly,” she said, reaching for his empty mug.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in for a kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured. “What would I do without you?”

“Eat sandwiches a lot, probably,” Ilsa said, and he laughed. She got up and went to heat up the dinner, her heart full of love and worry.

 

 


	5. The Interview

Ilsa was in Whistles on Saturday afternoon when her mobile rang, looking at a cute blouse that would be perfect for work and wondering if her salary was generous enough to justify the price. She put the blouse back on the rack and pulled her phone from her bag, hurrying out onto the street to get better signal.

It was Nick, calling from the hospital. He sounded harassed and pissed off. “Sorry, love, I can’t stop,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to make it to that bloody interview, the guy supposed to be taking over from me hasn’t turned up.”

“Oh, Nick—”

“Yeah, I know,” he said grimly. “I’ve got five patients still waiting. Could you give them a ring, explain, maybe tell the guy I’ll email him? The details are in the study by the computer.”

“I will, but—”

“Shit, that’s my pager. Thanks, Ils, see you later.” And he was gone.

Ilsa looked anxiously at her watch. She was an hour from home, and the interview was supposed to be in forty minutes. _Damn. Think._

She knew which hospital it was at. Maybe she could ask the switchboard for the department. But how to find the number for the hospital? She’d have to try ringing Directory Enquiries. Or find a library and look it up.

A sudden thought seized her. The hospital wasn’t that far away. She could go and ask. Maybe they’d let her ring the department from the front desk. That might actually be the best option.

By the time Ilsa got off the bus at the hospital, it was fifteen minutes until Nick’s interview slot. She walked quickly up to the main desk, but there was no one there. She waited a few moments, looking around, and suddenly noticed at the end of a corridor a sign pointing to Gastroenterology. She hurried along the corridor towards it, and followed the signs. Left here, right there. Why were hospitals such mazes? But she soon found the right department and went in in.

Clinics 5, 6 and 7 all had separate desks. Ilsa had no idea which one she needed. She approached the first one.

“Hi,” she said to the impatient-looking receptionist, a fifty-something woman with her hair in a tight bun. Ilsa pinned a friendly smile on her face. “I’m looking for the interviews for the gastroenterology position.”

“Surname?” barked the woman.

Ilsa blinked. “Er, Herbert,” she said, confused.

“This way.” The woman got up and marched down the corridor to her left. Startled, Ilsa hesitated, but she didn’t look back. Ilsa followed.

She had to trot to keep up. “Um, I just wanted—”

“You’ll need this,” the woman said, handing her a visitors’ pass.

“Actually, I just—”

“In here,” the woman said, opening a door and ushering Ilsa through. Ilsa turned back, her mouth open to explain, but she was gone.

Nonplussed, Ilsa looked around. She was in a small waiting area. A door to the left stood ajar. Four chairs sat along the far wall, all empty.

“Come on through,” called a cheerful male voice from the next room.

Ilsa hesitated, but there was no one but her in the small waiting area. Cautiously she pushed open the other door and entered the room beyond.

A portly, balding man in his late forties or early fifties sat at a desk. The hair that skirted the edge of his bald pate was mostly grey with flecks of red. His clear blue eyes were slightly watery, but keen and friendly. He regarded her with some surprise and looked back down at the papers in front of him.

“Herbert?” he said, frowning down at his paperwork.

“Um, yes, but—”

“Hah!” He barked a laugh, making her jump. “Stupid admin. Says here Dr Herbert is a man. Bet you get that all the time, eh? Apologies.” He stood and held out a hand. “Come in, Dr Herbert. Bob Ainsworth.”

Ilsa shook his hand automatically. This was the man Nick so desperately wanted to work with, one of the best in his field in the country. “Um, I’m not Dr Herbert,” she said weakly.

He looked at her. “Your pass says otherwise.” His eyes twinkled.

Ilsa looked down at the visitors’ pass she had forgotten she was still clutching. It did indeed say ‘Dr N Herbert’. “Um...” she began. “My name _is_ Herbert. I tried to tell your receptionist she’d got it wrong—”

“Janet?” The older man shuddered. “Terrifying. She’s a temp, my normal receptionist is off sick, broke her wrist. She’s going to have kittens when she comes back and sees what Janet has done with her system.” He grinned, and Ilsa laughed a little.

“So, tell me, how do you happen to be here, in my department, at the time I’m expecting to interview Dr Herbert, and your name is Herbert but you’re not him? If that’s a coincidence, I shall be mightily impressed.”

Ilsa laughed again. She liked this man. “I’m his wife,” she said.

“Curiouser and curiouser. Where is Dr Herbert, and how come you’re here? Take a seat, by the way.”

Ilsa sat. “It’s a long story, Dr Ainsworth—”

“Mr,” he said. Ilsa blinked.

“I know, ridiculous, isn’t it? All those years of studying and training, working your socks off, finally make the grade and get your own department and it’s back to Mr.”

Ilsa smiled. “I didn’t know that. Well, Mr Ainsworth—”

He waved a hand. “Just call me Bob. I’m sorry, I interrupted again. Go on.”

“Well, Mr— Bob, Nick’s at work,” Ilsa began. “He’s been there half the night, actually. And the doctor who was supposed to be taking over from him never showed up, and he still had five patients to see—”

Bob shook his head. “Ugh, the joys of being a junior doctor,” he said. “Every Health Secretary says they’re going to make it better, and they never do.”

“It’s getting worse,” Ilsa said suddenly. “I never see him. He works eighty hours a week some weeks. He didn’t even have time to find your number, just rang me and asked me to call. But the number’s at home and I was nearer here than there, so—”

Bob nodded. “So you thought you’d drop by and say hi! Excellent!”

Ilsa blushed. “I only meant to ring from the front desk, but there was no one there, so I came to the department, and I tried to ask Janet, but she just shoved me in here.”

Bob laughed. “Janet hates working Saturdays,” he said. “But I needed her today for the interviews. I said she could go once she’d showed the last one in, and that’s you. Or rather, your husband.” He shrugged. “Trying to get a day in the week that all the candidates could do would be like nailing mist to the wall. As it is, two others didn’t show up. No one else sent their wife, though.” He grinned.

Ilsa fiddled with the visitors’ pass in her hand, turning it over and over. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she admitted. “He’d probably be horrified.”

Bob roared with laughter. “I can’t think why,” he said. He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “So, Dr Herbert’s wife, why should I give him the job?”

Ilsa sat forward. “Because he really, really wants to work with you,” she said earnestly. “He’s read all your papers. He’s applied for other positions, but this is the only one he really wants. Apparently you’re the best in— oh.” She tailed off, blushing again. “You were joking.”

He twinkled at her. “I was,” he said, “but is all that true?”

Ilsa hesitated, then nodded. “He was so disappointed not to be able to make it today,” she said. “He’d have got away if he could, but...”

“Do you disapprove of the hours?”

Ilsa shook her head. “Not in principle,” she said. “He doesn’t mind working hard, it’s his vocation. It would have to be, none of them would stick it otherwise. But working them half to death is a silly way to make them prove it. He’s never once shirked a shift, but I never see him, and he’s always exhausted and ill—” she broke off. She’d said too much.

Bob regarded her quietly. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “I sometimes wonder how many perfectly good doctors we put off before they get this far.”

Ilsa said nothing, worrying she’d spoken out of turn. He gave her a kindly smile.

“Your husband has an impressive CV,” he said, laying a hand on the papers in front of him. “And I’ve read a couple of his more recent papers. I like the way he thinks. Tell him I’ll drop him an email, work out a time we can get together. I have a feeling I’m going to like him.”

Ilsa nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I really hope my blundering in and talking too much won’t affect his chances.” She stood, and Bob stood too.

“I won’t mention it,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, I will,” Ilsa said. “I’ll have to tell him. Honestly is the best policy and all that.”

He extended a hand, and she shook it. “What do you do?” he asked her.

“I’m a lawyer.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “My niece is a lawyer. Same clarity of thought process. Nice to meet you, Mrs Herbert. I’ll email your husband this afternoon with some dates.”

“Thank you,” Ilsa said again. “And sorry again.”

Bob smiled and waved her out. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. Before Ilsa knew it, she was back out in the corridors, scurrying back to the main entrance.

 _Shit,_ she thought. _I just accidentally went to an interview in place of my husband, for a job he desperately wants. How did I manage that?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday Caitlin Innes Edwards ❤️


	6. Confession

Ilsa heard Nick’s key in the door, and her heart began to beat faster. _Here goes._

He came in, dropped his keys and wallet into the bowl on the tiny table in the hall, hung his coat up. Ilsa poked her head out of the kitchen. “Hey,” she said softly. He looked grey, as usual, but he smiled at her tiredly.

“Just going to jump in the shower,” he said. “Long shift, hot wards. I reek.”

Ilsa laughed softly. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine if you don’t fall asleep,” she said.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised with a wink. He disappeared into the bathroom, and Ilsa went back to preparing dinner. She wanted all the prep out of the way so they could talk. She’d contemplated waiting till they’d eaten, but didn’t think she could bear to go through dinner with it hanging over her. She needed to clear her conscience.

She’d rung Claire on her way home, in a panic, but Claire had just laughed. “You went to your husband’s interview for him? How far did you get before you got rumbled? Did you get the job?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Ilsa had protested. “I didn’t mean to go to the actual interview. But how am I going to explain it to Nick?”

“You’ll just have to tell him and hope he sees the funny side, I guess.” Claire had still been giggling when Ilsa said goodbye and hung up, not at all reassured.

She popped into the office room quickly to refresh the email server on the computer on her desk, as she had done several times since she got home and switched it on. Still nothing. She’d been really hoping Bob would have sent the email so that at least she could tell Nick he had a new interview date. She sighed and went back to preparing the dinner.

Ten minutes later, Nick entered their little kitchen, damp and fresh-smelling in a clean shirt and trousers, and slid his arm around her. “Still awake!” he said with a rueful chuckle. “What’s for dinner?”

“Pasta, pesto, chicken,” Ilsa said, turning in his arms to kiss him and then disentangling herself and reaching for his glass. “Here.” She handed him a white wine, and leaned back against the counter, butterflies in her stomach. “Nick, I need to talk to you. I have a confession to make.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, intrigued. “Sounds mysterious. What’s up?” He took a gulp of his wine.

Ilsa took a deep breath. “I went to your interview today.”

Nick stilled. “You did what?”

“I was in town when you rang. I wouldn’t have got back here in time to ring before your slot. And I just wanted Mr Ainsworth to know why you weren’t there, and that we—you hadn’t forgotten,” Ilsa said. “Just to see if, like, maybe his secretary could give you a new date.”

“And?” His calm, expressionless demeanour was making her nervous. He put his glass down on the counter.

“Well... You see, there was a bit of confusion, because it was the last one of the day and the previous one hadn’t turned up, and his secretary was waiting to go home and quite cross and pushy, and she asked me my name and then she just assumed—” Ilsa stopped. Too much detail. “Long story short, she shoved a visitors’ pass at me and pushed me into the interview room.”

Nick closed his eyes for a moment. “With Bob Ainsworth? You went to my actual interview?” he said faintly.

“By accident, Nick, I’m sorry. I explained, and Bob’s lovely, he really is—”

“Bob? You’re on first name terms now?”

“He said to call him Bob.” This was going worse than Ilsa had envisaged. She ploughed on. “Anyway, he was very kind. He understood all about the junior doctor hours and the stresses, and he said he’d—”

“Jesus, Ilsa, what the fuck did you tell him?” Nick stared at her in horror.

Ilsa was stumbling over her words now. “Just that it’s a hard time and you’ve been ill—”

“Hang on.” Nick took a deep breath. “So you’ve basically gone to my interview, for the one job I really, _really_ wanted, and told one of the best gastroenterology consultants in the country, who I really want to work with, that I’m not coping with the job I’ve got?”

Ilsa stood frozen, trembling. His eyes were icy. “Um... That’s not exactly...” She trailed off, uncertain now. Was that how Bob would have seen it? He hadn’t sounded like he did. But then, he hadn’t sent the promised email, either.

“Ilsa, this was my chance. My one chance to get off this bloody treadmill and get something like a normal job, one I actually wanted. Please, _please_ don’t tell me you fucked it up.”

She stepped forward. “Nick—”

He held up his hands as she tried to approach him, and she stopped, frozen again. Nick stared at her in disbelief.

There was an agonising pause.

Abruptly, Nick swung away from her. “I’m going out.”

“Nick—” Ilsa tried again. She followed him to the hallway and stood helplessly while he slid his feet into his shoes and snatched his coat from the peg. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk. I need to think.” He said shortly. He pulled his keys and wallet from the bowl.

“How—how long will you be?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll be back when I can talk about this rationally. I’m too angry right now,” he said, and then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Silence descended on the flat. Tears brimmed in Ilsa’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She stood in the hall for a long minute, rooted to the spot.

Eventually she wiped her eyes and went to retrieve her wine glass from the kitchen. She covered the chicken in cling film, put the pasta back in the cupboard and the salad in the fridge. All she could do was hope he’d come back calmer and she could explain a little better.

 


	7. The Cavalry

Nick walked the streets for an hour, furious. His initial incandescent rage only cooled to a steady, hot anger. He’d been really, really hoping to get this position, relying on Bob Ainsworth to understand why he’d missed the interview, having been a junior doctor himself once. Now he was going to look like someone who sent his wife to sort his problems out for him.

He still couldn’t quite believe Ilsa would do such a thing without checking with him first. In his self-righteous fury, he wasn’t yet ready to try to look at Ilsa’s side of things. All he could think of was how desperately he wanted to get off the treadmill of registrar shifts and nights, being in charge of patients who in the main didn’t even suffer from conditions that fell under his speciality, and finally get a position working under one of the most respected gastroenterologists in the country. Any of the other positions he’d applied for, he wouldn’t have been so angry. But he really wanted this job, this particular position, and she’d known that.

After an hour of pacing the streets, he was just as tired as ever, hungry, and no less angry. He’d walked across the river and halfway up towards the middle of town. Reluctantly he turned back. He paused at a chippy and bought a burger and chips, and made his way more slowly back towards Battersea, eating as he went. His mobile rang in his pocket a couple of times, but he ignored it. He wasn’t ready to be reasonable yet.

A mile or so from the flat, he passed a pub with a big screen TV that he and Strike sometimes met in to watch football. On impulse he ducked in the doorway. Football season was over, but maybe there would be cricket highlights or something. He didn’t feel like going home yet.

...

“Corm, it’s me.”

“Ilsa. How are you?”

“Er, okay, thanks. Look—” Ilsa hesitated, embarrassed. “Is Nick with you?”

“No, I’m at Charlotte’s.” Strike frowned at the white expanse of living room wall, wondering what was going on. He could sense Charlotte, in the kitchen pouring wine, pricking up her ears at the mention of her name.

“Oh, okay, sorry to bother you. Don’t worry about it—”

“Ilsa, wait. Is everything okay? Why don’t you know where he is?”

Ilsa drew a shaky breath. “We sort of...had a bit of a row. He went for a walk. But it was ages ago. Thought you might have met for a pint. He—he’s not answering his phone.” Her voice wobbled and she wiped her eyes, glad he couldn’t see her.

“Are you okay?” Her old friend’s voice was gentle, and she fought the urge to bawl. _I’m a grown woman now, I have to sort my own marriage out,_ she thought. But her throat swelled shut and she couldn’t say anything.

“Ilsa?”

“It’s just—” she managed, quavering. “We never fight, and he was so _cross_ with me. I messed up, Corm, I went to see that guy he wants to work with and I tried to explain why he couldn’t make the interview. I just wanted him to understand that Nick isn’t flaky, he’s just so busy and stressed and ill and— Oh, shit.” She burst into tears.

“Okay, okay, breathe...” Strike stood and paced the living room, his shoes clumping on the varnished wood floor. Charlotte came through, passed him a glass of red wine, one eyebrow quirked, and went back to the kitchen. He could hear her starting to prepare dinner.

On the other end of the phone, Ilsa sniffed and hiccoughed. “He’s just been so busy and he’s exhausted, and I’m so worried about him, Corm, and I only wanted to help but he wouldn’t listen. And now I don’t know where he is—”

“Ilsa.” Strike butted in. “He’ll be fine. You know what us men are like with our pride. Just give him time. Want me to go see if I can find him? I know where he’ll probably be.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“I offered. I’m leaving now.” Strike stuck his head into the kitchen and Charlotte rolled her eyes at him fondly, clearly having understood the gist of the conversation from what she could hear. “I’ll text you.”

“Thank you, Corm.”

“No worries,” he said gently, and rang off. “Sorry,” he said to Charlotte, putting his untouched glass of wine on the counter.

She grinned and leaned across the marble-topped island to kiss him. “Dinner will be ages anyway,” she said. “Go and rescue Nick, I’ll see you later.”

Strike nodded. “I’ll see if Claire’s free to go round and see Ilsa,” he said, thumbing through the contacts list on his phone.

Charlotte glanced at him sharply. “Claire who you dated? You still have her number?”

“Old phone.” Strike beat a hasty retreat, grabbing his coat from the peg. “See you in a bit.” No doubt he would pay for that unfortunate slip-up later.

...

Strike paused on the street to text Claire. “You free to pop round to Ilsa’s?”

Her reply was swift. “Hah, take it she confessed to going to his interview. Yeah, on my way!”

Strike snorted a little with amusement and lit a cigarette.

He strolled from Belgravia to Battersea, taking the route that would pass the King’s Head, wondering exactly what Ilsa could have done to make his easygoing friend so cross. He cast his mind back to the last time he’d seen Nick, tense and tired, coughing, and wondered if in fact he was too stressed to be his normal relaxed self.

He went into the King’s Head, but there was no sign of his friend. He ordered a whisky and waited five minutes, then decided to move on. The Oak, then.

Ten minutes later he paused outside the pub in question. He could see Nick sat at a table on the far side, scowling into a pint. He pulled his phone out again and texted Ilsa. “Found him.” He paused and lit another cigarette. Ilsa’s answering text soon pinged back.

“And Claire found me. Thank you. You’re a star. Xx”

Strike smiled and tucked his phone into his pocket. He took a few puffs of his cigarette, and then shouldered his way into the pub and went up to the bar to order two pints.

 


	8. Reality Check

Strike plonked two pints down on the table and dropped into the chair opposite his old friend. Nick glanced up from staring into his almost empty glass, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Strike hesitated for a moment. “Well, I could say I was passing or some such bollocks, but actually I was looking for you. Your wife rang me, trying to find you.”

Nick sighed a little, then frowned, puzzled. “There are hundreds of pubs in London.”

“Yeah, you’re not so hard to find. I tried the King’s Head. I was going to just ring you if you weren’t in here.”

Nick huffed a little. “Lucky for you I’m so predictable,” he said, hearing and disliking the snide tone in his own voice.

Strike sat back and regarded him impassively. Discomfited, Nick glared at him. “What?”

“Has it occurred to you, and I say this in a spirit of friendship and respect,” said Strike, “that you might be being a complete arse?”

Against his will, Nick snorted a laugh. Strike grinned. Nick shook his head. “I should have known you’d take her side.”

“See, I’ve never been married,” Strike said conversationally, picking up his pint. “But as I understand it, that’s the thing about marriage. You and Ilsa are on the same side. You either both win, or you both lose.” He took a drink, watching for Nick’s reaction, gauging his mood.

Nick dropped his gaze. His friend was right. And it didn’t much feel like he and Ilsa were winning at the moment.

“Yeah, maybe I’m being an arse,” he muttered. “Is that what Ilsa said?”

“She didn’t, actually. She’s not pissed off with you, mate. She’s worried about you.”

Nick glanced back up. “Why?”

“She thinks you’re more burned out than you’re willing to admit to yourself,” Strike said bluntly.

Nick thought about the workload, the exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the frequent illnesses. You didn’t have to be a doctor to join those dots. He sighed. “She’s probably right.”

“She usually is. Never met anyone with such empathy.”

“No,” Nick agreed, his heart swelling with love for his wife suddenly. He struggled to remember why he’d been so angry. He glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should go home.”

“Drink your pint first. Claire’s round there having a glass of wine.”

Nick sighed. “She really did call in the cavalry.”

“Nah, I got in touch with Claire and suggested she pop by. Which is going to cost me dearly, because Charlotte wants to know why I still have Claire’s number.”

“Why _do_ you still have Claire’s number?”

“Because it’s still in my phone and I’ve never got around to getting a new one,” Strike said impatiently. “There’s no ulterior motive here, despite what my girlfriend will probably think.” He sighed.

There was a pause. Nick took a draught of his pint. He was exhausted suddenly, the anger draining away and leaving him floating with tiredness again. Strike looked at him and shook his head slightly.

“Mate, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like shit,” he said.

Nick gave a rueful nod. “I feel like shit most of the time,” he confessed. “That’s partly why I wanted this job so badly. It’s mostly because that’s the department I could see myself in. But if I can get up onto that next rung, I would stop having to do the registrar stuff, manning the whole bloody hospital at night. It would be mostly day shifts with the odd weekend, maybe some lates, and all in my speciality.”

Strike nodded. “Seems like you must have done your share by now,” he said. “Let the newbies take over.” He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, looked around for an ashtray. “What’s the deal with the job? What did Ilsa do that made you so cross?”

“She went to the interview. By accident, but still. And spun the guy a sob story about how hard it is for junior doctors and that’s why I wasn’t there.”

Strike lit his cigarette. “Well, that’s true.”

“I know.” Nick sighed, his eyes sliding to Strike’s cigarette packet next to the ashtray on the table. “But she also told him I’d been ill and stuff. I don’t want my future boss thinking I can’t cope with the work.”

Strike pushed the packet towards him. “Don’t make a habit of it,” he said mildly. Nick chuckled and picked the pack up and took a cigarette out.

“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t. Ilsa doesn’t like it.”

“Sensible woman,” Strike said. “Charlotte just joins me. Not much of an incentive to quit.”

“So,” he went on, lighting Nick’s cigarette for him. “Why would the boss think that getting a bit run down over junior doctor hours, which he must have had to do himself, would make you unsuitable for a post in his department?”

Nick shrugged, drawing on the cigarette. “I guess he wouldn’t,” he said. “That was probably just male pride talking. Like you said, I’m being an arse. I’m just so fucking tired all the time.”

Strike nodded.

“When we’re abroad, on assignment,” he said suddenly, “you don’t really sleep. You know there’s colleagues taking turns to watch, but you have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. It’s never more than a doze. It’s not like sleeping at home. I kind of get it.”

Nick nodded too. He drew on his cigarette again and closed his eyes, savouring the nicotine hit taking the edge off his exhaustion.

They sat quietly for a while, smoking, and the conversation drifted to football. Nick was longing to get home now, but he wanted to let Ilsa have a moan to Claire about her moody husband.

When their pints were finished, he declared his intention to leave. Strike stood too. “I’d better get back myself,” he said. “Charlotte will have done tea by now. And hopefully forgiven me for still having Claire’s number.”

Nick shook his head a little. “I’ll never work you two out,” he said. Strike laughed.

“Me neither, mate,” he said. “But when it works, it works.” He winked and Nick snorted.

About to leave, Nick hesitated. “Thanks, Oggy,” he said quietly.

Strike waved him away. “No need,” he said. “You were there for me through the Whittaker crap. I’ve not forgotten that.”

Nick nodded, and they shook hands, and then Nick found himself out on the street in the evening air, heading for home, a spring in his step that hadn’t been there for months.

Strike paused to text Ilsa. “He’s on his way home.” Then he lit another cigarette and set off back towards Belgravia.

 


	9. Making Up

When Nick let himself quietly into their flat and kicked off his shoes, Ilsa was sat on the sofa, a glass of wine next to her, the television quietly playing a documentary. He hung up his coat and paused in the doorway to their little living room, gazing at her. She looked up and smiled uncertainly at him.

He gave her a half-ashamed grin and crossed the room to her, dropping to a crouch in front of her and resting his hands on her knees. “Ils, I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me?” He gave her his best boyish grin, his hazel eyes begging for forgiveness.

Ilsa gazed at him, a tremulous smile playing around her mouth. “What for?”

Nick chuckled. “Oggy says I’m being an arse.”

Ilsa giggled. “That’s a bit harsh. You’re exhausted, and I did kind of screw up.”

“You didn’t deserve me throwing a strop and storming out, though.”

Ilsa leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair. “You just went for a walk.”

“And ignored you when you rang me. I’m sorry, Ilsa.”

She smiled gently. “And I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to go to your interview, I just went to ask someone in admin if you could have another appointment.”

“I know you did. What’s done is done. I’ll email Bob Ainsworth tomorrow.”

Ilsa looked excited. “No need,” she said. “There’s an email for you on the computer. Go and look.”

Intrigued, Nick stood up and went through to the study. He scanned the email quickly, then more slowly, and then made his way back to the living room.

“Is that his home email address?”

Ilsa nodded, her eyes shining. “I think so. He’s taken your file home. He said your CV was impressive and he’d read a couple of your papers and he likes the way you think. He wants to meet you.”

Relief and delight surged through Nick’s veins. “So I might still get the job?”

“I didn’t _completely_ fuck up your interview,” Ilsa said with mock indignation. “I have been to a few interviews in my time, you know. Just not for a medical position.”

Chuckling, Nick came back towards her. “I’m sure you charmed him,” he said.

“He’s a really nice guy,” Ilsa said. “You’ll get on with him, I think. And I think you can actually do Monday?”

“I think I can,” Nick said. “Got a couple of days off now, thank God. I might be able to catch up on some sleep and feel a bit more human.” He looked down at her on the sofa. “I’m sorry for being such a grumpy git. I’ll make it up to you.”

Ilsa gave him a cheeky wink. “You can start by getting back down here on the floor,” she said, nodding to where he’d been crouching a few minutes ago.

A soft smile crept across her husband’s face and he moved to kneel in front of her, his hands on her knees again. Ilsa sat forward and kissed him, and his hands slid up her thighs to her hips as they kissed, slow and languorous.

Ilsa opened her mouth to his, inviting him to explore, kissing him hard, and Nick slid his hands around her bottom, cupping the curves of her backside. He growled a little at the feel of her, and then slid his left hand up to her breast.

Ilsa gave a sharp gasp, wrenching her mouth from his, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as he caressed and stroked her through her clothing. “God, Nick,” she muttered hoarsely. It had been too, too long.

He buried his face in her neck, kissing and mouthing at her skin. Heat jumped between them. Nick’s hands went to the buttons on her blouse, undoing them one by one until he reached the bottom, and then he pushed her gently back against the sofa cushions and opened the sides of the garment and slid his hands inside, cupping both breasts through her bra. Ilsa’s head dropped back with a moan of pleasure, and he bent to explore her with his mouth as well as his hands, sucking at her, pulling her bra aside and drawing a taut nipple into his mouth.

Ilsa writhed and panted beneath him. “God, that’s so good,” she whispered. “Please, Nick, I want you.” Her hands fumbled with his shirt buttons, and as soon as she’d undone two or three, he drew back and pulled his shirt off over his head.

Ilsa sat up, wrapping her arms around him and kissing his chest, her hands roving over his back and then sliding around to his belt buckle, wrestling it undone and then his trousers. He helped her, pushing them down and groaning as she closed her hands around his cock, sliding along his length. His hands went back to her breasts, stroking, pinching gently at her nipples.

Panting, Ilsa slid her hands around his backside and pulled him to her, grinding herself against his erection, pressing her breasts against his chest. Nick shuddered against her and slid his hands down to her hips, bunching her skirt up and slipping his thumbs into the sides of her knickers. He drew away so he could pull them down, and Ilsa kicked them aside and tried to drag him back to her.

He resisted, a soft smile on his face, and pressed her gently back down onto the sofa. “Lie back,” he whispered, and slid his hands under her bottom and drew her hips to his. He teased her, gently nudging against her entrance with his cock, and Ilsa gasped and reached for him, trying to draw him closer. He straightened up out of her reach, his eyes glittering down at her, and she sank back again with a moan.

“Patience,” he murmured, and she arched her back a little. “Please—”

Nick pressed forwards and slowly thrust into her, angling her hips with his hands. Ilsa’s head dropped back with a groan of delight. He withdrew and thrust again, slowly, and she writhed against him. He felt so good, buried deep inside her, sliding in and out, but he was going just a little too slow. Her hands gripped his forearms and she rocked against him, trying to encourage a faster rhythm, pleasure and need storming through her.

Nick closed his eyes. The sight of her desperation for him was too much, and it had been too long. Pleasure threatened to overwhelm him at the feel of her tight heat around him, and he wanted to make sure he pleasured her first before he gave in to it. He slowed the pace a little, holding on by sheer force of will.

Ilsa bucked her hips against his, meeting each thrust, desperately chasing her release. He was still going too slowly. Every movement felt so good, anticipation coiling tight in her spine, but her orgasm hovered just out of reach.

“Nick, please, more,” she gasped.

“Can’t,” he ground out, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back, keeping the slow pace. “Too close.”

“Come,” she whispered, her eyes pleading up at him, glazed with need. “I’ll come if you do.”

“Fuck, Ilsa—” It was too much, her words, the need in her voice, her beauty laid out in front of him. His control snapped and he drove hard against her. Two, three, four deep, fierce thrusts, and with a cry she arched beneath him, just as his own release rushed through him. He felt the flutter of her orgasm around him as he spilled into her, fierce pulses rocking him, drawn out by hers. At last he dropped forwards, slumping into her arms, and they clung to one another, breathing hard.

Ilsa wrapped her arms around her husband. The warm glow of satiation rolled through her and she hummed, deeply satisfied. Nick answered with a rumble of his own, his face buried in her neck, his breathing slowing.

She allowed him a minute, and then she gave him a gentle shove. “Come on, husband, don’t fall asleep here,” she said fondly. “Bed with you.”

Nick levered himself off her with a groan. His face was lined with exhaustion and she knew he had no hope of staying awake now. She reached up and kissed him tenderly.

“Go and get into bed,” she said gently. “I’ll tidy up and lock up and be there in five.”

He nodded and stumbled towards their room, yawning as though to crack his jaw. Ilsa, grinning at herself in her open blouse with no knickers under her skirt, tidied up swiftly, checked the front door and followed him through. He’d managed to take his trousers off, left in a heap on the floor, which he never did. He’d crawled into bed in his boxers and gone straight to sleep.

She stood looking down at him for a minute while he snored softly, and her heart felt like it might burst with love for him. Smiling, she went to take off her makeup and brush her teeth so that she could come back and climb into bed and wrap herself around him.

 


	10. The Second Interview

“Ah, the real Dr Herbert!” Bob came out from behind his desk, hand outstretched. “Bob Ainsworth, call me Bob.” The two men shook hands, sizing one another up. “Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, thanks,” Nick said, grinning. “I’m straight to work after this.”

“A junior doctor’s hours are never done.”

“Yeah. Speaking of which, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here on Saturday.”

Bob waved a hand, moving to the coffee machine on a desk by the window. Nick took a moment to look around. This wasn’t the interview room Ilsa had described, with its little waiting area. This was Bob’s actual office. It had an air of ordered chaos, a bookshelf stuffed with books and bearing a spider plant trailing almost to the floor, shelves groaning with files, a coffee machine, several spare chairs for impromptu meetings.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bob said. “It was lovely to meet your wife.”

Nick laughed a little. “She said to apologise to you again on her behalf. I think she’s still not quite sure how she ended up in the actual interview.”

“Janet,” Bob said succinctly. “Everyone just does what they’re told with Janet. Still, Maria will be back in a week or two. Sugar?”

“No, thanks,” Nick said. He took the proffered coffee with thanks, and the two men sat.

Bob’s eyes regarded him with amusement. “So, your wife tells me this is the only job you’ve applied for that you actually want?”

Nick closed his eyes briefly, a flush stealing across his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said again. “But essentially, yes. I wasn’t going to say it in quite such an obsequious way.”

Bob laughed. “No need to apologise,” he said. “All the interviewees said that, in one form or another, but she was the first one I believed. You’ve really read all my papers?”

Nick nodded. “I grabbed the one on gut health and immunity when I was on my gastroenterology rotation, and it struck a chord with me. Ended up working my way through all of them.”

“Is that an area you’re interested in?”

“Very much. I threw some ideas into a paper of my own, but—”

“I’ve read it. Interesting take, would be good to see you develop some of those lines of thought.”

Nick was surprised. “I didn’t think anyone read minor papers published by juniors.”

“I make it a habit to try to read one a month from a new doctor. It’s a good way to spot the talent coming through the system. But I always read papers written by the doctors I interview for positions.”

Nick nodded.

Bob put his coffee down and regarded Nick levelly. “Nick, is it? Or do you go by Nicholas?”

“Only to my mother.”

Bob laughed. “Right, Nick, I’m going to level with you. The reason you were last on the interview list is you were my preferred candidate based on your CV and the papers I’d read, and I thought if I’d seen everyone and I liked you, the job was yours. I think you’ll fit right in here. So it’s yours if you want it.”

Nick gaped at him for a moment. “Um, wow, thanks,” he said. “I’ll take it. Thank you.” Delight surged in his heart.

Bob nodded. “Good,” he said briskly. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but given what your wife said, I assumed that there was a good chance you’d say yes. I’ve been putting some feelers out. I can’t officially take you on full time until you’ve got your credited years, so not until August 1st as per usual. But—” He paused to take another slurp of his coffee. “One of my doctors, who was due to go on maternity leave in a few months, is having twins and finding it hard going. She wants to cut her hours. So if I could pull the right strings, I could maybe get you over here sooner.”

Nick sat forward. “That would be fantastic.”

“I can’t put you in post officially till August, you know how these things are. But you can learn the ropes, pick up the slack we’ll have with a doctor going part time. I can sign off on your stuff till you’re official. It’ll give me a chance to see first hand how you work. You’ll probably still have to do some registrar shifts, but they run a slightly less tight ship here in terms of rotas and staff levels. Should be an easier ride than where you are currently. You’ve had quite the baptism of fire over there, I would imagine. I’ve heard on the grapevine it’s tough.”

“It is pretty relentless. That’s great, Bob, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

Bob grinned. “No thanks needed. Glad of a chance to snap you up before some other hospital gets hold of you.”

“Right.” He put his coffee down again. “There’ll be a ton of paperwork to fill in, but I’ve got your details. I’ll get some stuff out to you in the post as soon as I can. You probably won’t have an office right away, but maybe you can share as part of the job share till you get your own.”

“I get an office?” Nick said faintly. This was sounding almost too good to be true.

“It’ll be the crappest one to start with, that seems to be how these things work,” Bob said with a chuckle. “But yes. You’ll have to store files and so on. And I strongly advise getting yourself at least a kettle, the coffee in the cafeteria is truly woeful.”

Nick laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Oh, and I do a team drinks thing at my house in September. It’s an annual thing, get the team together, introduce the newbies. So I shall look forward to meeting your wife again.”

“I might have to persuade her, she was pretty embarrassed.”

“She has nothing to be embarrassed about. If anything, she swayed me more in your favour, though I’d have offered you the job anyway. We all need someone to have our backs like that, and a good support network makes a good doctor. You’re a fortunate chap.”

Nick smiled softly. “I know.”

“Right, well, I think we’re done here. Hopefully you’ll have time to eat before your shift, I imagine it’ll be the last food you’ll see today?” Bob stood.

“Pretty much,” Nick said, standing too. “At least A&E tends to be quiet on a Monday, so hopefully we won’t get too many admissions.”

They shook hands again. “Thank you,” Nick said, and he really meant it. “I’ll look forward to working with you.”

Bob shook his hand vigorously. “Good to have you on board. Regards to Mrs Herbert.”

Nick laughed and nodded, and before he knew it he was back out in the corridors. He strolled along, imagining knowing these walls as well as his current place of work. Probably better, one day.

He left the hospital and turned in the direction of his own. The buses looked busy and he had plenty of time, so he decided to walk some of the way.

Yet another long, chaotic shift that would probably turn into a double lay ahead of him, but today he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

 

 


End file.
